Summer heat and gems to steal
by Wild Childe
Summary: It's frigging hot out, Gambit decides to have some fun for old time's sake and Rogue catches him. Rated for language and a teensy bit of, er...romance


It was hot, really hot

Disclaimer: No I won't sing this time. Nothing belongs to me. Don't own nada. 

Enjoy.

It was hot, really hot. Rogue groaned and rolled over and nearly stuck to the sheets. Even with the windows flung open, the fan goin' full blast and down to the pair of men's boxers and sweat soaked sports bra worn to bed, she was still certain that she would indeed melt. She absolutely couldn't recall a night like this in Mississippi during her childhood; it'd been suffocating as hell, but never a raw heat like this.

"Shower, I need a shower." The thought struck her like a punch in the jaw. "Better yet, a swim—no, FLIGHT." 

Rogue danced precariously on the balcony edge in the gigantic Nine-Inch Nails T-shirt Bobby had gotten her from the last concert, hand over heart, voice squeezed out between big dramatic sobs. 

"G'bye, cruel world. Y'allve pushed me to mah limits." With that she threw herself over the edge of the fifteen-story building and giggled all the way down. 

She began counting down the seconds till she had to pull up; "five, four, three, two, one, Whoosh!!" She added the sound effect, tightened her stomach muscles and stretched upwards, her feet just brushing the damp lawn as she rose again. The air was a helluv a lot cooler when it was going by bare skin at 100 mph. She cruised hundreds of feet up in the air, careful not to go to far—if she got lost in this kinda dark, she'd be seriously fucked—and would've missed the dark shape down below if it hadn't been for the freakishly bright moon. 

Remy crouched at the edge of his windowsill, balanced against the night blackness. Saints it was hot! New York summer nights were not supposed to be like this. He'd lived his whole life in the damp heat of the south and knew heat when he felt it. This was a little too much, especially in the boots and the gloves and the jeans and the coat and the hood.

"Ah, fuck it!!" He yanked off the coat and shirt, exchanging them both for a navy colored wish of a top. It had started as a T-shirt, but had been cropped so badly at the bottom, sleeves and neck, that it covered not much more than the bare necessities. 

"Dis is what I need t'night, dis and my—ah merde!!" Remy discovered the dagger and monogrammed sheath he carried whenever he went out had fallen in the small crack between bed and wall. Tiredly, he plunged his hand down into the crevice, feeling around for familiar soft leather case. 

"Humph, some position for de Master Thief of N'awlans to be in." He grumbled from under the comforter. At long and beautiful last, his long fingers latched onto the damn thing and he was out the window and running across the lawn before h remembered to be careful. The time he spent with the X-men had softened him, swung him out of a thief's natural habits. Baaaaaad, very bad. 

And this was why Rogue spotted his dark figure loping across the grass to his Harley parked just outside the gates. 

"Now what the hell is that boy up to?" She followed the roar of the engine down the high way and into the night. 

Remy sped down the straightaway, hair, dagger sheath and virtual shirt whipping back in his wake. He didn't look at the speedometer but he guessed that he was going well over the speed limit. He grinned; anything faster than was legal was fine by him. A slight tapping drew his attention downward. He swore loud and long and pulled over; his damned bootlace had come undone. This soooo did not happen to Master Thieves. 

Masters were supposed to be able to walk off, become part of the night and return with half the world in their pocket. He was loosing his touch. 

He bent over to tie the damn thing and nearly fell off the bike when he saw bare legs—terrific, muscular things that he'd always been fond of gazing at. Lovely things leading up to, (merde, he thought bitterly,) the hem of a shirt and up to a very displeased face and two white streaks that he knew all too well. 

Jus' be cool.

"Chere, what a surprise to see you out here." His palms were sweating under the gloves. Waita be cool, homme.

Rogue smiled, it wasn't the kind of smile he wanted to see. "I was jus' gonna say the same thing. Where you goin' Coonass?" Then glancing at the gloves, pack, and hour; the light dawned. Her smile widened for a minute, and then she attempted valiantly to scowl.   
"You're goin' t'…?"

He smiled ruefully. "Ah, chere, y'know jus' wha' t'say for ev'ry time, non? Oui, I be goin' a thievin'."

She stared in disbelief, "Without _me_, you dog?!" and whacked him upside the head. The hood was the only thing that stopped her from draining him. Realizing her predicament, she walked off a step or two and just started cussing black and blue, using the vocabulary she'd picked up from the three years on a ranch. Remy applauded, took off his own gloves and handed them to her. 

"D'accord, chere. I show you de ropes." She thought about this for about two seconds before saying "Sure" and hopping on behind him. 

The gloves he'd given her were longer than any she'd ever worn before, going all the way up to her shoulders, and elastic strap crossing her back to connect them. It was, he told her, to prevent any fingerprints, skin flakes or DNA from getting on a thief's trail. 

It also allowed her to wrap her arms around his waist, stopping her from flying off when he revved and thus becoming raspberry jam all over the road. 

They drove for what seemed like minutes, Remy telling her a little about robbing houses. 

"You gotta be light, easy, non messin' around with t'ings; jus' get in, get out, n'es pa?" He felt her nod against his back. "Didn't always jus' go in like dis; used to pick up a femme, get a key, copy and clean out." 

"Why ya dirty S.O.B.! I've got half a mind ta—"

"Chere, understan' dat dese femmes 'ave de whole fuckin' world in dere hand. Upper class, rich femmes, lookin' for some nice Cajun ass." 

Rogue coughed and laughed into his shoulder, resting her forehead on a whole piece of his shirt. "Boy, did they find it." 

Remy felt her gloved fingers trace the lines of his six-pack and shivered ever so slightly under them. This was all to good; a hot summer night, a challenge ahead, the belle Rogue wrapped around him, his blood singing. He grinned and revved the Harley into the night, high on his joy.

I've just realized this has spectacular potential for smut, **which I will not do**, because I'm a **good **little girl and good little girls **don't** write porn for anonymous persons on fanfiction.net. 

Like it? I've got more coming.

As always, read and review, no dramatics or I will force feed you your secondary sex organs. :]


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